Chapter 13
When Rowan came back into the school offices after the Harvest Festival service, she shivered.
It was like a refrigerator and every window in the outer office was open.
The previous Saturday had turned out to be the last warm day.
There was a definite autumnal chill in the air now and she couldn’t think of any reason why Bex would have thrown all the windows open.
‘Has there been a fire while I was out?’ Rowan had only intended it to be a joke, but Bex sniffed the air, as if she was expecting to smell smoke.
‘No, why?’
‘I just wondered why you had all the windows open, when it’s so cold in here.’
‘Oh God, sorry.’ She moved to the first window and pulled it shut. ‘It’s just that I had another very early start with Tom and I could barely keep my eyes open because it was so warm and cosy in here.’
‘Did he have a bad night?’ Rowan could still remember the torture of broken nights, even though her two had been pretty good sleepers. Bex’s youngest son, Tom, was eight, but he still had lots of nights when he didn’t sleep all the way through.
‘Not so much a bad night as a very early morning.’ Bex tried to suppress a yawn, but didn’t quite manage it.
‘He came into our room at 3 a.m. and said he couldn’t sleep, so I ran through all the usual things with him…
you know, is there anything you’re worried about, do you feel sick, are you thirsty, blah, blah, blah. ’
Bex looked exhausted just describing it, and Rowan gave her friend a sympathetic nod as she continued. ‘Of course Tom says no to all of that, but I get him settled back into his own room, lie down, shut my eyes and start to have a very nice dream about Tom Hardy taking me horse riding.’
‘You dreamt about Tom Hardy taking you horse riding?’ Rowan raised her eyebrow and smiled.
‘Yes, but that’s not the point of this story.
’ Bex hesitated for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it is in a way, because there I was, in the land of make believe, having a very nice time riding along a sandy beach, when suddenly one of my eyelids was literally prised open and my Tom is staring at me, eyeball to eyeball, telling me I need to wake up because he’s awake.
It was 4.30 a.m. and by the time I’d played another round of why-can’t-you-for-the-love-of-God-just-sleep, it was quarter past five and not worth me even trying to get back to dreamland, find that beach again, and see whether Tom Hardy was still waiting for me.
Especially as Matt was already up to start work on the farm, so I couldn’t even cuddle up to him as a consolation. ’
‘Sounds awful and I really wish I could send you home early, but with the meeting after school…’ Rowan pulled a face.
Given the choice she’d have sent herself home early too, but there was a meeting between the PTA and some of the governors, who were coming to outline a strategic plan to improve the school and how the PTA’s fundraising efforts might support that.
Rowan had already attended the governors’ meeting earlier in the week and the hot topic was that the school was due for an Ofsted inspection by the end of the academic year.
The chair of governors, a belligerent ex-detective chief inspector, who’d been part of the panel when Rowan was appointed, had told her that ‘with your reputation and past experience we expect nothing less than an outstanding grade; it’s why we employed you. ’
No pressure then. It wasn’t that Rowan didn’t have high expectations too, but the school could get an inspection at any time and, given that she was only a few weeks into her headship there hadn’t been time for any radical transformation.
The school had been graded as good at the last inspection and she was determined to improve on that, as long as she had time to implement the changes and garner the support she needed from the governors, parents and staff to make them happen.
It was why she’d smiled sweetly at former DCI Keith Hounslow and assured him that being graded outstanding was her goal too.
Keith’s granddaughter was at the school, and he reminded Rowan of some of the parents at Membory Grange, who radiated entitlement.
Some of them had even been known to remind Rowan that they ‘paid her wages’.
There had been lots of upsides to working at a private school, mostly around how freely available resources were and the fact that she didn’t need to manage budgets like a professional juggler to be able to replace broken equipment or recruit an additional staff member.
But it hadn’t been as idyllic as it looked from the outside, despite the beautifully manicured grounds of Membory Grange.
The environment had been elitist in many senses and being at Port Agnes Primary had reminded her why she’d wanted to go into teaching in the first place.
It felt like she could make a real difference to the children there, with the decisions she took and the way she led the school.
There was a sense of the school being a hub of the community too, instead of an exclusive enclave, quite apart from the life going on in the nearest towns and villages, as Membory Grange had been.
Maybe it had been a metaphor for her own life.
Rowan suspected that hers and James’s marriage might have looked idyllic from the outside, but that had been a facade too, such a good one that she hadn’t fully realised it herself until she got out.
Bex’s response to her apology brought her back to the moment, all thoughts of her old life fading into the distance.
‘It’s okay, Henry has maths homework on Thursday evenings and I don’t want to go home until that’s done.
I hid in the car park behind the village hall last week working my way through an entire tube of salt and vinegar Pringles while listening to a podcast about mindful eating, until I was sure it would all be over.
’ Bex laughed. ‘I cannot watch Matt pushing himself to the edge of a heart attack by shouting over and over again that multiplying a half by another half equals a quarter, and Henry sitting there saying “I just don’t get it. It makes no sense that multiplying something can make it a smaller amount”.
Matt got so close to the end of his tether that he snapped a ruler into four pieces to demonstrate, and I think if it hadn’t been the ruler something in his head would have snapped instead.
Neither of us are cut out for teaching, but especially maths.
I stopped being of any use once they got to about three and it turns my kind, patient, level-headed husband into an unexploded bomb!
Your kids are so lucky to have a teacher in the family. ’
‘Hmm I’m not sure they’d agree with you on that.
Bella told me at the grand old age of six, when I was helping her to write some comprehension sentences, that I was the worst teacher she’d ever had.
’ Rowan smiled wryly at the memory. ‘I think when you’ve spent all day dealing with other people’s children the well just runs a bit dry and maths is hard.
Henry’s right: a lot of it makes no sense. ’
‘I feel better now, although it doesn’t excuse the whole tube of Pringles.’
Rowan laughed. ‘I think we might need a few tubes on standby for after the meeting and a very large glass of wine for when we get home.’
‘I could always fill our coffee cups with something if Keith is going to be there.’ Bex pulled a face, which suddenly softened into a smile.
‘Talking of wine and Pringles, do you fancy coming to watch the half marathon on Saturday with me and Toni? I think Anna’s coming too and we can have a picnic if the weather is good enough.
The forecast looks dry and I don’t mind wrapping up in a coat if it means I can sit in a folding chair, drinking wine, eating crisps and feeling like I’m doing my bit by sending a donation to JustGiving from my phone. After all, we can’t all be runners.’
‘We can’t, some of us have got to be in charge of sponsorship.
And a wine and Pringles picnic? That sounds like the kind of catering I could cope with.
’ Rowan smiled again. At Membory Grange everything was OTT, with parents trying to outdo one another.
Even something as simple as having a picnic while their children played cricket would turn into a game of one-upmanship, and it had always been impossible for Rowan to relax.
This sounded like far more fun. Although she already knew she wouldn’t be drinking, not when there were parents of her pupils around.
The last thing she wanted to give them was anything else to talk about.
She’d already overheard a discussion through her open office window about the alleged real reason she’d come back to the village.
Everyone seemed to have their own theory and it would only be a matter of time before someone hit on the right one.
But that was a worry for another day, and if anyone could take her mind off things it was Bex, who was outlining exactly how she thought the picnic should go.
‘I might be able to stretch to a sandwich or two, maybe even a sausage roll, but I draw the line at anything that needs a knife and fork. I’ve got one hand for eating and one for holding my wine, sitting comfortably in my folding chair and cheering on Matt and Henry in the main race, and Ollie and Tom in the kids’ race.
Nathan has done such a great job of organising everything and there’s going to be an inflatable fun course and barbecue for the kids straight after their race, run by some of the volunteers, so I won’t need to be on full-time mum duty either. Are Bella and Theo doing the race?’
‘Bella and Tiffany have bought matching outfits for the kids’ race, and I think the boys are doing it too and then presenting medals to the runners who finish the half marathon. So I’ll be entirely at a loose end for at least part of the day.’